Photograph
by TheFisherKitty
Summary: A story of love, loss, the end of one life and the beginning of another, explored through a series of vignettes. Rated M for character death, adult content, and angst. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own IPS or any of the characters.**

**Warning: Rated M for character death, adult themes, and angst. If those will upset you, don't read.**

**Author's Note: This story, Photograph, stands on its own, and is in no way related to any of my other stories. Though it isn't a happy story, it was one that wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. If you don't like it, feel free not to read. If you do like the story, then thank you for your support.**

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_She says "Wake up, it's no use pretending"_

_I'll keep stealing, breathing her._

_Birds are leaving over autumn's ending_

_One of us will die inside these arms_

_Eyes wide open, naked as we came_

_One will spread our ashes 'round the yard._

- Iron & Wine (Naked As We Came)

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**1.**

Marshall Mann woke up in a cold sweat, a barely stifled cry on his lips. Gasping, he rolled over, his hands scrambling to the other half of the bed, the cold, empty half where Mary should have been but wasn't. She never was. Waking up without Mary next to him was hard every time, but the nights when he woke from dreams of her were the worst; he reached for her, always, and never found anything but an empty space that confirmed the dreams were real as their fading echoes haunted him.

_Marshall, something's wrong._

_Please save my baby._

Sometimes, in the dreams, he witnessed more than he'd actually been privy to that night, his mind easily filling in the blanks; sounds of a trauma room, her continuing pleas for help, or perhaps calling for him when he'd not been allowed back with her, a doctor's voice saying ominous things like _prep for emergency C-section, we're losing her, she's flat-lining…_

Sometimes, he saw a look of shock and terror on her face as she realized she might not pull through this time, a hand fluttering protectively to her belly but already trembling with the growing weakness of her impending death overtaking her.

He pressed his palms to his eyes. It did no one any good to dwell on these images, but he couldn't stop. The dreams would always be there to haunt him, as would her absence.

A wailing cry started up in the next room, his daughter calling out to him either for some physical need like a diaper change or something less tangible, a need in the dark of the night for her remaining parent, who her infant brain never failed to recognize though he knew not how.

He took a moment to collect himself, scrubbing tears cried in sleep and already half-dried from his face with the back of his hand; he didn't like for her to see him like this, though she was yet too young to comprehend that much. He simply didn't feel it was right.

A few heartbeats later, feeling that whether he was composed or not his child could wait no longer, Marshall heaved himself from his bed and padded into the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own IPS or any of the characters.**

**Warning: Rated M for character death, adult themes, and angst. If those will upset you, don't read.**

**Author's Note: I knew that when I decided to post this story, some people wouldn't want to read it, but I'm really surprised that so many of you have. Thank you all, my wonderful readers! I'm so pleased to see so many of you giving it a chance.  


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2.**

He'd known she was pregnant before she had. Almost overnight, her lovemaking had become more languid, suddenly lacking that fervent urgency of which she'd been possessed since they had decided to try.

He remembered that first night, after she'd asked her best friend over and, out of the blue, had pushed a coffee mug and a turkey baster across the counter while phrasing her request in the most ineloquent way possible. Yet, the meaning had come through; she wanted a baby, and there was no other man she would want one with. All the same, he wasn't about to have a child with the woman he'd loved for so long by way of a cooking utensil, and when he'd told her as much, she'd been utterly crestfallen. He'd taken her into his arms then, and he'd told her that she could have all of him, unconditionally, if that was something she could find acceptable, and apparently is was. They'd made love in her bed, and though she hadn't gotten pregnant that night, he'd fallen asleep with his hand pressed to her belly, wondering if they'd made a life.

It was another two months before he knew. By then, their lives had merged seamlessly, fluidly into one; as complicated as Mary was, as he himself could be, that had been surprisingly simple. The fact was, their lives had already been more integrated than either of them had realized. It was almost a mere formality, because not very much had really changed. The sex, certainly, was new between them, but the love wasn't, and the time spent together wasn't, and after years of heated situations in the field, it was even the case that each found the physical nature of the other familiar.

She'd looked at him with such wide eyes when he'd told her, whispering sleepily against her neck that he thought she was pregnant with his child. She had replied that there was no way he could possibly know, but he'd insisted that he knew anyway, and he'd kissed her, and the next day she'd taken a test and his suspicions were confirmed.

From there out, it seemed like things just kept getting better. He'd loved her for so long a time, and yet he felt that with every day that passed he only loved her more, until what he'd felt for her before seemed only a pale shadow of what had grown in his heart. He was right there with her while morning sickness came and went, and he was there, too, when she realized her clothes didn't fit any longer, and she had cried and said she felt like a whale. They were together in all things, partners always, from work to birthing classes to the bedroom; at a point it was decided that two houses were superfluous, and she had readily moved in with him, declaring that her own house had too many memories that she didn't really want to think about. When she had to leave the field, Stan had allowed him to spend more time in the office, taking the opportunity to train Charlie in the finer points of handling witnesses, and their boss had even gone so far as to let them both leave the office early on a semi-regular basis, when she found that even desk work exhausted her.

She grew increasingly ravenous for food as the pregnancy progressed, and for sex as well. If Marshall had thought Mary was insatiable in those areas before, he had come to realize that his expectations had to be redefined. When she woke in the night with insatiable cravings that had more than once sent him driving across town in the small hours for the strangest of foods, he was there, or at least, wherever she'd told him to go, and when she craved other things that he could do for her, well, he was there for that, too. The curious thing was that he didn't even consider the latter of his many duties to her to be somehow a reward for all the rest. To him, it was all rewarding, and he would have happily done anything for her.

He, too, couldn't keep his hands off her, and not only in a sexual context. The changes in her fascinated him, from her rounding belly to her enlarged breasts to the soft glow that graced her facial features. She had complained to him that he spent more time with his hands on her bump than she did, which he didn't think was true at all; he'd caught her with her hands resting over their unborn child more often than she would ever admit, an expression of happy curiosity on her face. Then there came a day when he was for seemingly the billionth time putting his hands on her belly and murmuring embarrassing things to their offspring that had her rolling her eyes and on the verge of severe irritation, and the baby had suddenly begun to kick, and they'd both felt it, and that surprising moment had taken Marshall to an entirely new place in his love for her and the child she carried.

For Marshall, for a time, everything was perfect.

And then, all in one night, it wasn't.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own IPS or any of the characters.**

**Warning: Rated M for character death, adult themes, and angst. If those will upset you, don't read.**

**Author's Note: I think we all know what's coming. This is going to be one of the more sad chapters in the story. Fair warning given! Thanks so much to those of you still reading this. Hang in there.  


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3.  
**

That night would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Her hand gripping his arm roused him from a sound sleep. At first, from the sound of her panicked breathing, he thought she'd woken from a nightmare, perhaps that recurrent one wherein he wrestled with a giant bunny which he'd some to think of as her generic-something-bad-happens-to-Marshall anxiety dream. It happened sometimes, either because she was worried about him for some reason or because she was worried about something else and her mind felt compelled to add him to her ever-growing heap of concerns. The moment he heard her voice, however, he knew that wasn't the case.

"Marshall, something's wrong."

Her voice was pleading. She was afraid, and instantly so was he; fear was not something Mary Shannon expressed under normal circumstances. His phone was in his hand, 911 already dialing as he turned to her.

"Talk to me, Mare."

"Hurts," she whimpered, her hand clenched on her belly, her face drained of color.

When the 911 operator came on the line, he gave his badge number and described what he was seeing, what Mary was telling him. This was not normal labor, he knew, though at three weeks from her due date that would not have been unlikely. The paramedics arrived shortly and as they prepped her for transport he called Stan, told him something was wrong and to meet them at the hospital because he didn't know what Mary might need and he wanted to be prepared. Then they were on the move; he rode in the ambulance with her and held her hand the entire way.

She was checked in as a major trauma and whisked away from him almost too quickly for him to murmur _I love you _and drop a kiss in her hair; she answered him not with words but with a look that was as clear as any words could have been, and the last thing he heard her say as they pushed her through the doors was to the doctor as she gripped the man's sleeve, nearly begging, also very unlike Mary Shannon.

"Please save my baby."

Then the doors swung closed and Marshall was left alone with his own fear and impatience; he paced and he worried and he pressed his balled fist to his mouth as he resisted the urge to vent his terror and frustration by punching a hole in the wall.

As it turned out, he didn't have long to wait. Someone, a nurse or a doctor, he was too addled to note which, came through the doors and called his name, approaching him when he looked up and proffering a consent form. There were words, too, words he struggled to comprehend, words that meant he would never see Mary again.

Marshall stumbled, fell, and landed ass-first on the floor; not bothering to get up, he held his head in his hands, trying to force order from the chaos tumbling through his mind and failing.

Stan entered the waiting room just in time to see Marshall fall. He made quick strides to his inspector's side and made to help him up, but he froze as he heard the words the nurse was saying to the apparently incoherent man.

"Mr. Mann, she won't be saved. An emergency Cesarean section must be performed in order to save the baby. We can't do that until you sign the form."

Marshall could only stare blankly as Stan grabbed the pen and shoved it into Marshall's hand, which he then held to the paper so Marshall could sign it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own IPS or any of the characters.**

**Warning: Rated M for character death, adult themes, and angst. If those will upset you, don't read.A**

**Author's Note: This is, quite possibly, my favorite chapter of the story. Still sad, though. Those of you still reading, thank you for showing this story your support. I hope you'll keep reading. =)

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4.  
**

After he'd sat numbly for what had seemed a long while, some of the nursing staff had taken him back to a cozy, dimly lit room; a private room somewhere in the maternity ward, he realized, where mother and child were meant to get to know one another while they recovered from their shared ordeal.

This time, though, there would be no mother. There was only him, and how could he be enough? He was at a loss as the nurse helped him settle the newborn infant against his chest, knowing he needed to bond with something before he followed the urge to chase his beloved into the great beyond, whether by some means swift and deliberate or by simply allowing himself to waste away.

As he felt that small heart beating against his own, both possibilities became non-options. He could not, and would never, willingly abandon this child that needed him as much as he needed her. His hand on her back was huge in comparison; she was small, not dangerously so, but smaller than he'd expected. Of course one didn't usually see babies right away unless they were family, and she had come early. Still, she seemed so tiny and fragile, and somehow so much more real now that she was in the world and he could see what a part of him she was.

Marshall loved her already.

He glanced at the tag on the end of the bin in which she'd been brought to him. Baby Shannon-Mann. Mary had died, then, without naming their child. She hadn't had a specific name picked out, but had repeatedly assured him that when she laid eyes on the baby for the first time, she would know what she was to be called.

That had never come to be.

The tears started to flow, silently, so as not to disturb the small, sleeping form on his chest. Mary had left him with even this responsibility, one which he had not given much thought. So many times, Mary had insisted he'd just name their daughter something crazy like Moon-Unit or Space-Cowgirl; he'd had no intention of doing any such thing, but had recognized her unspoken desire to name her baby herself. It would have broken his heart that she hadn't even gotten to do that one thing that she'd so badly wanted, had his heart not been broken already.

There was only one name he wanted to give her now, but that name was forbidden; Mary would never forgive him for naming their baby after her. She would have been completely pissed at him for even thinking it. Mary Mann did not have the best ring to it either, which was one of the many reasons Mary had given as to why they could never actually get married (not that she ever would anyway, and he had respected that) and hence, how both of their last names had ended up on the baby's tag. Their names were different, and the hospital staff simply hadn't known what last name their child would have.

Naturally, no one had told them. Mary had been too busy dying, and he'd been too busy wallowing on his ass.

Some father he was already. He couldn't even figure out how to name his daughter. If it weren't for the fact that Mary would have hated him for it, he'd have gone ahead and named their baby Mary too, but he knew it was wrong, and Mary's will was not something to be trifled with even now that she was dead, perhaps especially now. Mary was a Shannon woman, though much more responsible and together than the others he knew. This child would be the same; she was Mary's child, no matter whose last name she had. A Shannon woman, just like her mother.

"Shannon," he breathed softly. He liked it. Mary would have thought it was stupid, but he had the feeling it would have fallen under the category of lovable-stupid that she had enjoyed teasing him for over the years. Shannon Mann. It had a good sound. It sounded like partnership: Mary first, himself second, but always together.

"Hi, Shannon," he whispered again to the tiny figure he held. "My name is Marshall, and I'm your dad."

The two stayed there, ensconced in a hospital recliner, until a nurse came to take Shannon away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own IPS or any of the characters.**

**Warning: Rated M for character death, adult themes, and angst. If those will upset you, don't read.**

**Author's Note: Many thanks to BuJyo for pointing out that this scene needed to happen! To leave it out would have been utterly remiss!  
**

**Thanks also to those still following along. There is yet more to come, and I hope you'll keep reading.

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5.  
**

He couldn't get her face out of his mind. The fear, the confusion… it was all so unlike her, an image he couldn't reconcile with the strong, fearless woman he'd always known Mary to be. It was as incomprehensible as it was irrefutable, much like the fact of her death itself.

After he'd stayed in that room with Shannon for as long as the hospital staff would allow, he was taken to another room, where Mary was. The matter became real then, a crushing weight on his heart that nonetheless allowed him to push through the foggy veil of pretending it wasn't happening. It was happening. It _had happened. _

He sat in the chair that had been provided for him, took her hand in his own, and looked at her still, pale face. It was like seeing an echo of the woman he loved, but at least he wasn't seeing that look of fear any longer. The hand that had clutched desperately at the doctor's sleeve not long ago was slightly cool, a disconcerting feeling he tried not to think about too much, and no longer tense with her fear but relaxed in his grasp. He tried not to think of words like _lifeless. _Relaxed was better, and he wanted to leave it at that.

"I'm sorry, Mare," he whispered. "I shouldn't have let this happen. I…"

_I love you, _he wanted to say, but he couldn't; there were no words left in him. He felt like it would be too much like talking to himself. Although hearing himself talk was an activity that Mary had often accused him of enjoying, it now seemed far too lonely a prospect. The realization struck him then that he would never hear her say that, or anything else, to him again, that her voice was gone from his life forever as she was, and it was too much. His throat clenched around the tears he'd tried to swallow, and with a shuddering, choking gasp, the dam broke.

He leaned on her as he cried, his love, his life, his everything; she was his rock, his anchor, his safe harbor, and how did one get through the worst of losses without those things? It was the cruelest of ironies that the moment she was gone was the moment he needed her the most.

Eventually, the tears stopped, and that, too, felt almost cruel, because it left him with nothing, and the idea that he could somehow run out of tears where Mary was concerned felt wrong to him. There was nothing else to do, though. He still couldn't say to her the word he knew he was supposed to, _goodbye_, and already it was time to go, though no one was forcing him to leave. No time in the world would be enough to say that.

When he exited the room, he found Stan waiting in the hall, head bowed, and as the smaller man looked up, Marshall saw the telltale streaks of fresh tears on his face. Stan pawed at them clumsily, hiding the evidence of his own grief although he had to know Marshall had already seen it. That was just the kind of guy Stan was; he wouldn't want his own emotion to overshadow what Marshall was feeling. He'd want to be strong for the people he cared about.

"I can come back later," Stan offered awkwardly.

"I think I'm done. I just… God, Stan, I can't do this," Marshall replied, his throat closing up once more though no tears followed.

"The nurse told me you named the baby Shannon. I think Mary would have liked it," Stan said gently.

Marshall glanced at Stan then, feeling as though he might somehow manage to cry again after all. "She would have made fun of me for it."

Stan patted him on the shoulder and fought back renewed tears of his own. "Yeah, she would have… but she would have enjoyed every minute of it."

The two men lapsed into awkward silence until at last Marshall spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.

"She's not here, Stan," he said. "There are things I have to say but I just can't find her to say them."

"You'll figure it out," Stan replied, though how he knew that, Marshall couldn't begin to guess. "I was going to go look in the nursery window some more. Do you want to come with me?"

"Yeah," Marshall agreed softly, and turning, he followed his boss down the hall.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own IPS or any of the characters.**

**Warning: Rated M for character death, adult themes, and angst. If those will upset you, don't read.**

**Author's Note: It's been a while. I'm so sorry, my dear readers. There were some family issues and I ended up going out of town for that. I'm not back yet, but I did have the opportunity to put this small chapter together (and it started bugging me while I was trying to sleep). I hope you're still with me.

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6.**

Marshall wished he could say the first night without her was the worst, but it wasn't. He'd lain awake, pillow hugged to his chest, and stared at the empty side of the bed next to him as he attempted to force some sense from the abrupt shift in his reality. Sense would not come, nor feeling; there was only a hollow, numb void where something he'd never thought he would lose had once been, a gaping emptiness where that something had been torn away, leaving a wound that could not yet offer sensation.

Later, he would wish for that numbness to return.

God, how he would wish for it.

But that night, there was only the hollowness within him, the emptiness in bed next to him, the numbness that refused to accept that she was gone and denied him the pain that might force such an acceptance. The space around him, so much empty space, echoed with a silence that stood with the half-empty bed as proof of what had transpired.

It should be familiar to him, that silence, he felt; hadn't he lived in this very house alone for years, with the same once-peaceful nighttime silence that was now deafening, suffocating? It was as though the very house around him had become accustomed to Mary's presence, and was grieving her with him.

He wondered, then, if it would always feel as it did now, cavernous, and empty, even though he knew it really wasn't; he knew that Stan slept a light, watchful sleep just down the hall on the living room couch, a sleep honed over years of guarding the lives of others. He knew, too, that his father would arrive not long after the sun rose, after hours of darkness that would be marked, minute by minute, slowly and sleeplessly; he knew that in a few days, his daughter – his _daughter, _and that was something else again, something else with which he had no idea how to cope – would come home from the hospital. He knew these things, but he felt it was likely that these additional occupants, like Stan, would do little to dispel this oppressive miasma, no matter how much sound they made.

Nothing could replace what was missing.

Soon, the hollow feeling within him would swell with grief and loss, but for that night, he was numb.

Maybe that, in and of itself, was a mercy.

And God, what would he do when he could feel again, and he'd have to face the hurt?

Marshall buried his face in the pillow he held against his chest, carefully stifling soft, whimpered sobs from Stan's ever-attentive hearing and from the house itself.

To break the silence would be to admit it was there.

Marshall wasn't ready for that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own IPS or any of the characters.**

**Warning: Rated M for character death, adult themes, and angst. If those will upset you, don't read.**

**Author's Note: It's been so long since an update, but I will never abandon a story if I can help it. As many of you have supposed, this story was written from a place of loss, and there came a point where I needed to take some time from it. I can now inform you that the last chapter has finally been written, and while this isn't it, you can count on this story actually having an ending. There are still a few chapters to go though.  
**

**If you're still reading this, I offer my thanks for your endless, wonderful support.

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7.**

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, bathing the desert plateau in a golden glow. A small altar had been erected, bearing a large picture of Mary and an urn that held what was left of her earthly remains. A nondenominational preacher of some sort officiated the memorial service, attended by a handful of people in folding chairs that included Marshall himself, and Stan, as well as Jinx, Brandi, and Peter. Even Eleanor had flown in. Marshall knew that deep down, the two women had liked and respected each other. His father was at the house watching the baby; Shannon was far too new for such a gathering of people.

There were a few marshals there besides Stan and himself, and more cops. He should have known. Mary had liked cop bars. None of these, though, would have been any of her one-night-stands that had preceded their relationship. She didn't like to sleep with people she might encounter on the job, although there had been an occasional exception. No, these people were friends, or at least as close as Mary got to friends; they were people who remembered her fondly. Bobby Dershowitz was there, Marshall noted as he looked around.

He didn't remember a thing the preacher had said, having gotten lost in his own thoughts of Mary as the ceremony progressed. A few people who had known Mary well spoke on her behalf, kind words that brought smiles and tears to the others gathered to share their memories. It seemed altogether a nice service, one Mary would have liked if she could have been said to like that sort of thing. Stan had taken care of the arrangements and he'd done well. Marshall simply hadn't had it in him.

When all was said and done, the crowd began to disperse, some simply leaving and others waiting to offer him their condolences. Not yet ready to face them, he stepped up to the altar and rested a hand on the urn as he stared over the cliff edge a few yards beyond. This was a good place, he thought; when he was ready, perhaps, this would be the place for her. He had no idea when he would be ready for that, though.

"You," a voice came from behind him, shrill and shaking and laced with venom. He turned to find Jinx there, feet planted and fists balled at her sides as she squared off against him.

"If it weren't for you," she hissed, "my Mary would still be here. She's dead because of you, you son of a bitch!"

If the increasing volume of her voice hadn't caught the attention of the memorial attendees, the ringing slap of her hand as it struck his face certainly did. The slap was hard and he hadn't seen it coming; he stumbled back against the altar, which was fortunately fairly stable and took his weight.

"You took my daughter from me, you bastard!" Jinx screamed again, struggling against Brandi and Peter who had run forward to restrain her.

"Mom, no!" Brandi sobbed as she clung to her mother's arm desperately. "Marshall didn't do anything wrong! It isn't his fault!"

"He killed my baby!" Jinx shrieked, breaking down completely as Peter led her away to his vehicle.

Marshall stared blankly after her, his cheek reddened by the print of her hand. Brandi approached him, shaking, and took his arm to help him upright.

"Oh God," she whimpered, hiccupping softly. "Oh Jesus, Marshall, I'm so sorry…"

Marshall felt his knees start to buckle and in a heartbeat Stan was there, bearing him up and guiding him to the car as Brandi followed after, her sister's urn in her trembling hands. As Stan settled Marshall into the car, the taller man looked around as though seeking something; when his eyes came to rest on the urn, he cast a pleading look at Brandi and held out his hands.

Not knowing what else she could do, Brandi handed it to him.

Marshall sank heavily into the passenger seat of Stan's car, cradling the urn in his lap as he stared numbly ahead. He barely seemed to register his boss's presence in the driver's seat when the bald man joined him. Stan didn't know what to say after witnessing Jinx's outburst, but it was Marshall who broached the subject first after a few moments of silence.

"Stan," he addressed the other man with a choked sob, "is she right? Was this something I did?"

"Jesus, Marshall," Stan replied, aghast. "You can't put any stock in that crap she was spewing. Did you smell her? She was drunk, and that on top of losing her daughter… she wasn't talking sense. You have to know that."

"If Mary hadn't gotten pregnant, she'd still be here," Marshall whispered roughly, tears streaming down his face.

"If you hadn't agreed to give her a baby, she'd have found another way. Shannon could have been fathered by a test tube or a bar fly, and then she wouldn't have you."

Marshall knew Stan wasn't trying to malign Mary's character; it was simply a fact that when she wanted something, she would get it done, and that was that.

"Shannon would still have me, no matter who fathered her."

Stan swallowed roughly past the lump in his throat and nodded, catching Marshall's forearm in a comforting grip.

"Listen, I…" Stan hesitated. "After… after it happened, I talked to the, uh, the guy down at the morgue."

A low moan tore from Marshall's throat and his shoulders shook as he tried to control the tears that continued to flow. He'd tried, at Stan's urging, not to think of Mary in that cold place, but in the last few days it had never been far from his mind. Of course, she wasn't there any longer; all that now remained of his partner, his love, was in the urn on his lap. He made as if to rest his hands on it, only to lift them again as though touching it would burn, and he looked around helplessly for a place to put them. He settled at last on the door panel and the armrest in between the seats.

Stan waited for him to settle before continuing. "He told me that what happened to Mary… it wasn't anything either of you did, or didn't do, or could have helped. It was just one of those things, Marshall."

Marshall nodded and another sob wrenched from him; as he broke down completely, he felt Stan's arm around him as the smaller man pulled him across the center console into a fatherly hug.

"Stan," Marshall spoke softly when he finally pulled away, "please take me home. I want to be with Shannon."


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I don't own IPS or any of the characters.**

**Warning: Rated M for character death, adult themes, and angst. If those will upset you, don't read.**

**Author's Note: There are either two or three more chapters after this. Three, I think. I was saying three more as of last update, but now I think I need one more. Read on, and thank you for following this story.  


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8.**

A picture of the three of them did not exist; they hadn't had that chance, just one of so many opportunities denied them. So Marshall mentioned to Brandi one day while she held her three-month-old niece, an offhand comment born of a melancholy he felt constantly but rarely expressed to others. She had looked up at him then, her huge round eyes causing her to bear a strong resemblance to an animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

At first Marshall thought he'd inadvertently reopened the never-to-be-healed wound of her sister's death with his careless remark. He was about to apologize when he realized there was something more to it; he saw in Brandi's face that she was deciding something. After a moment her mouth compressed to a thin line, and she gave a slight nod as though agreeing with herself.

"Here, Marshall, take her for a minute," she said quietly, and he allowed her to transfer his daughter back to his arms.

He regarded her curiously, for she rarely surrendered her beloved niece without prompting; he believed her devotion stemmed both from a love for her sister's child and from a need to pay back the favor Mary had done in raising her when they were young. Now she was rummaging through a shoulder bag she used for school, and he watched as she pulled out a manila envelope which had been tucked carefully in the back of her notebook. She set it on the table and held her arms out for Shannon.

"That thing you said about there not being a photo of all of you," she spoke again, cradling her niece once more as Marshall reached for the envelope, "well, that's not exactly true."

He lifted the flap and peered into the envelope, finding the edge of a photograph there. As he drew it out and realized what it was, his throat clenched; he thought his heart might even have stopped beating for a second. There she was, his Mary, her tank top drawn up, exposing her round, pregnant belly. Her hair glowed in sunlight, and she was smiling down at him as he looked up at her in awe, his hands pressed to her flesh as he felt their child kicking. It hadn't been the first time, but Shannon had really been going to town that day, and feeling her move within Mary's body had never lost its fascination.

"It was that day we were all hanging out for Peter's birthday, do you remember?" Brandi asked, and Marshall nodded. "I don't think either of you even noticed when I took that. I was going to frame it and give it to you when Shannon was born but… it just didn't seem right at the time…"

Marshall nodded again as she trailed off. Nothing about the event of Shannon's birth had gone as planned; he hadn't expected to find himself a single parent, that was for sure.

"Anyway, she was getting really big by then," Brandi pointed out, "so all three of you are pretty clearly in the picture. I know it's not what you meant, but… well, it's all I have."

"It's perfect, Brandi," he murmured reassuringly, letting his fingers hover over the smiling image of Mary on the glossy eight-by-ten photo paper. It was as perfect as he was ever going to have, anyway; he set the sheet back on the coffee table and wiped away a few stray tears that had escaped. Turning to Brandi, he smiled faintly. "Thank you."

Brandi nodded vigorously, any reply trapped in her throat by the renewed sense of loss welling within her. Marshall put a hand on her shoulder kindly, and watched as she mouthed _I'm sorry._

"It's okay," he replied. "I don't think a day goes by where it doesn't hit me all over again at least once. There are days when I can't even imagine how I'm going to do this without her. I don't know how to be a mom and a dad put together."

"You know," Brandi choked out, "I don't really know how to be an aunt. I was expecting Mary to help me with that."

"You have a funny way of showing it," he laughed softly as he fought back tears again. "You're really good at it."

"I just think of how Mary was with me when I was growing up," she replied. "I'm not being an aunt… I'm being a big sister. You should just ask yourself what Mary would do."

"Would you tell me about her, back then?" he asked hesitantly. "She didn't talk about it much, and I hardly know anything."

"Okay," Brandi said, smiling through her tears. "I'll tell you and Shannon everything."


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I don't own IPS or any of the characters.**

**Warning: Rated M for character death, adult themes, and angst. If those will upset you, don't read.**

**Author's Note: We're getting very near the end now. Only two more chapters after this to go. Thanks for reading!  


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9.**

When Marshall entered the nursery, he found Seth Mann already there, clad in a cotton undershirt and plaid pajama pants, his three-month-old granddaughter in his arms. Marshall hesitated in the doorway and as he watched them he wondered how it was that he had never realized this side of his father existed. He also wondered if he would ever be able to hold his infant daughter the way his father did, with the ease and comfort of experience. Seth looked up after a moment, and had undoubtedly known Marshall was there all along; though retired, the man had lived and breathed as a marshal for nearly the entirety of his adult life, and sneaking up on him was simply not possible.

"Good, you're up," he grunted as he handed the infant over. "She wants you."

"How does she know?" Marshall asked softly in wonder as Shannon quieted in his arms.

Seth shrugged. "Babies are just like that. They want what they want."

Marshall nodded as his father left the room. He couldn't decide whether Seth's response had been unnecessarily cryptic or unbelievably straightforward. It reminded him of something Mary used to say: _the heart wants what it wants._ There were some things that simply defied explanation.

He looked around the room. It had once been his home office, but had been converted months in advance in preparation for the new life that would inhabit it. The walls were painted a calming, natural shade of green at Mary's insistence; no daughter of hers would be raised with froofy pink everything forced upon her. Various pieces of baby furniture, wood with a dark walnut finish, were his contribution. The room reflected the tastes of both parents, the result of their combined efforts to welcome their offspring. A teddy bear given to Mary by Brandi long before the birth and dubbed 'Biscuit II' sat in the crib; Shannon did not like to be without it, and it had already begun to look rather loved.

His eyes came to rest on the photo of Mary and himself that Brandi had taken. It hung over the crib, fastened securely so it wouldn't fall and pose a risk to Shannon. It completed the room in a way he hadn't expected, because until he'd put it up he hadn't realized the room was missing anything.

"Why did you have to leave, Mare?" he whispered as he looked at the picture, speaking softly so as not to reawaken the baby that now slept in his arms. "Is that a question that has no answer?"

Of course, no one answered him. He chewed on his lip, struggling to rein in the sense of loss that had hit him yet again, and arranged Shannon in her crib. He turned out the light on his way back to the hall, and found his father there waiting for him.

He felt the dam breaking; he didn't want to cry in front of his father, he wanted to be stronger than this, but he no longer knew how, and he wasn't even sure he had ever known. To his surprise, the older man pulled him into a hug, and Marshall clung to him like he was once more a small child himself, crying into his father's shoulder over something that hurt so much more than a skinned knee. Mute sobs wracked him, and Seth's shirt stuck to his face as the older man brought a callused, comforting hand to the back of his neck.

An hour later, the two sat in the kitchen. After Marshall had cried himself out, something he hadn't done in front of his father since earliest childhood, and even then not that he could recall clearly, Seth had put on a pot of coffee. To Marshall's surprise, his father also pulled a bottle of whiskey out of the cupboard and added a belt to each mug before handing one to him.

"Seriously, Dad? It's four in the morning," Marshall remarked, eyebrows raised over red-rimmed, puffy eyelids.

"Just one won't hurt, and the situation calls for it. There're worse ways to start the day," Seth replied, eyeing Marshall pointedly. "You were already awake when Shannon started crying, weren't you?"

Marshall nodded slowly.

"Let me guess: nightmares."

"How did you know?" Marshall asked softly.

"Do you honestly think that after a lifetime as a marshal, and losing my wife of forty-three years, that I haven't gotten to know that haunted look of yours from looking in my own damn mirror?"

Marshall looked down at the table's surface for a moment, then gulped some of the spiked coffee and looked at his father.

"Was it like this with Mom?"

Seth sighed. "Now, that was different. And not in the way you're thinking," he added, raising a hand to forestall the argument he saw on his son's face.

"Your mother and I had a lot of years together," he continued. "We should have had more, and God knows I wasn't planning on spending my retirement alone. But we raised three sons together, and we had more in each other than some ever have. On the other hand, you met the woman you'll love forever, and she's gone. You got screwed, Marshall, plain and simple."

Marshall felt the lump in his throat forming again, and he swallowed another mouthful of coffee around it.

"Does it ever get better?" he whispered roughly.

"It's been four years since your mother died," Seth replied, "and I still don't have an answer to that question. I think, after a time, you get used to carrying it around with you, but it will always be there, and sometimes it will hit you all over again and you'll feel like it happened yesterday."

"I don't know if I'll ever be able to move on," Marshall added, his voice betraying his weariness.

"Son, everyone's different. You'll move on in your own time, if you even decide you want to. If you don't, if you just want to hold onto her forever, that's your choice. Your mother was the only woman for me, and I'd certainly understand if you felt the same about Mary."

"I really don't know how to do this alone," he sighed.

"You may not have Mary," Seth replied, taking a long, slow sip of his coffee, "but you're not alone. You've got me, at least. I'll stay as long as you need. And there's that girl, Brandi. Speaking of, I asked her to come by and watch Shannon for a few hours tomorrow."

"What? Dad, you can't just make her watch Shannon! Brandi's got a life with her fiancé to think about. She doesn't need to be stuck here picking up my slack."

"Marshall, this didn't just happen to you. That girl lost her sister, too. Shannon is family to her, and it sounds as if she's got precious little family to begin with. Besides, you need to get out some. I thought we could see that Degas exhibit at the art museum before it closes."

"You hate art museums," Marshall stated, eyeing his dad suspiciously. "And you wouldn't know a Degas if it bit you on the ass."

"The point is, you don't hate them. It won't hurt me any to spend a day doing something you like. And it makes me think of your mother." Seth saw his son blanch at those words. "Trust me, there will come a time when doing things that remind you of her will feel good instead of reopening the wound. There's no rush. Just take it one day at a time. And today, that means museums and all that crap."

"Dad?" Marshall asked. Seth looked up at his questioning tone. "What if I never stop needing you here?"

He shrugged. "Then I'll stay. The house is too big for me now that your mother's gone. I was going to sell it to your brother and get a condo."

"You'd hate a condo."

Seth sipped his coffee in silence as he regarded his son.

"I could convert the guest room. You're already almost living in it anyway." Marshall hesitated before adding, "I think I'd like it if you stayed."

Seth nodded, a small smile briefly crossing his lips.

"As long as you need me."


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I don't own IPS or any of the characters.**

**Warning: Rated M for character death, adult themes, and angst. If those will upset you, don't read.**

**Author's Note: After this, only the epilogue remains. Thanks for reading!  


* * *

10.**

Marshall sat on the hood of his SUV, feet resting on the front bumper. He let his arms rest loosely on his knees as he watched a breath of wind stir dust on the ground before settling back into stillness. The arroyo split the ground perhaps ten yards away, a gaping chasm of separation that seemed incredibly fitting even now. He was back here again, at the place where they'd said goodbye to Mary.

No, that wasn't accurate.

The truth was, he'd never said goodbye to Mary. Even now, a year later, he still half-expected her to come walking into the office at the ding of the elevator. The job was a constant reminder, but it was his duty, and one he was not allowed to abandon.

_You cannot quit._

At home, the strangest things reminded him. While considering what to make for dinner, he'd sometimes recall the things she loved to eat that he hated, forgetting for just a moment that there was no longer any need to consider those options. The things he liked that she hated only left him feeling guilty, and he avoided those when he was in such moods.

Four months back, the dryer had broken, and when he had pulled it away from the wall, he'd found one of her socks. It was from the pair of thick green ones that she'd liked to wear under her boots in the winter. She'd looked for that sock off and on for weeks, as though it had become a point of pride.

_There's nothing like a pair of great socks. You just can't beat that, _she'd said, agitated as she pawed through her sock drawer for what had to be the twentieth time.

He'd cried for an hour that time, barely able to collect himself before the new dryer was delivered. Like all the other times, and all the others that would come, he had picked himself up and forced himself to go on.

_You cannot quit._

It had been a year. It was time.

He wasn't ready for anything big. He didn't know when he'd be ready to cast her ashes to the desert wind. But this first step had to be done.

He had to talk to her.

He had to begin to say goodbye.

"Hey, Mare," he whispered, fighting against the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat.

"Shannon had her first birthday yesterday. She's gotten so big, Mary. She was so tiny when she came into the world, so it's pretty hard to believe."

He paused, thinking over the memories of the day before; how Stan had brought the cake, how Marshall had cut a piece for Shannon, how she'd played with it and gotten it all over herself. His father had at least had the sense to spread a trash bag on the floor under her high chair first.

Brandi and Peter had been there, too. Brandi had taken pictures.

Marshall couldn't help but imagine what it would have been like if Mary had been there. She would have complained, probably, that it was silly to have a party for a baby who wouldn't even remember it, but she would have enjoyed herself. She would have laughed and smiled and played with Shannon. Maybe it would have been she who gave Shannon the cake.

"I'll never be able to tell you how hard it's been without you here," he continued. "There aren't the words for the hole you left inside of me when you went away, but… I hope you know. I hope you know from wherever you are how much I love you…"

He couldn't do it. Tears fell through his fingers as he hid his face in his hands. He wasn't ready yet, even a year later. Saying goodbye to Mary was a concept that still seemed completely foreign to him. Even a year after her death, he still saw her in his mind's eye, living, strong, immortal, the Mary Shannon no knife or bullet could kill.

_You cannot quit._

"I'm still here, Mare," he whispered quietly as her words spoke from the depths of memory, those three words that drove him on when nothing else could.

There was no answer but the still silence of the desert, but somehow, Marshall knew that it was enough. He didn't have to say goodbye; he only had to carry on. That was all Mary wanted of him.

"I'm still here."


	11. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I don't own IPS or any of the characters.**

**Warning: Rated M for character death, adult themes, and angst. If those will upset you, don't read.**

**Author's Note: We have reached the conclusion. To everyone who has followed this story to the end, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for letting me share this story with you.  


* * *

**

_She says, "If I leave before you, darling,_

_Don't you waste me in the ground."_

_I lay smiling like our sleeping children_

_One of us will die inside these arms_

_Eyes wide open, naked as we came_

_One will spread our ashes round the yard._

Iron & Wine (Naked As We Came)

* * *

**Epilogue**

Cowboy boots sat next to the door of the college dorm room; their owner had slipped on a pair of Uggs for comfort before sitting down at the desk where a framed photograph sat, carefully placed like everything else in the newly inhabited room.

The eighteen year old girl looked at the picture lovingly as she pulled out some paper and a pen. How the two people in it looked like her - the woman's eyes were hers, as were her hands, sturdy and strong; from the man, the hair color and the slender shape of his face were her own. She was lonely for home. What she wouldn't give to be watching a Star Trek movie or Lord of the Rings with her dad right now… but college was something she'd been looking forward to, also, and she knew how proud he was of her.

And the woman… they had never met, but always, when she looked at that picture, she knew that woman was a part of her: her mother, Mary. She could feel their connection, and knew that had her mother lived, they would have had so much in common. She knew that her mother had loved her long before she was born.

She put pen to paper and began to write.

_Dear Dad,_

_I know you just left for home yesterday, and I know I'll just end up calling you a long time before this letter gets home. I had to write anyway, because I know you're still at work, and I can't wait to tell you about my first day of college. Besides, you always say it's good to have something to hold onto._

_My classes are awesome. I think my world history instructor's going to be a hard grader, but I know I'll be alright. In English composition, we were all asked to share a fact about ourselves as we made our introductions. I told them about how I can palm a basketball, just like Mom could._

_I know she's with me, Daddy. I don't know how, but I can just feel it… I think about her and suddenly everything's warmer, like the sun started shining. I know she would be proud of me, like you always are._

_Charlotte seems like it will be a really interesting place. I can't wait to explore, but don't worry - I'll be safe! I have my pepper spray that you gave me! But I should go now, because I've already been assigned a paper, and you always say not to leave it until the last minute._

_Write me back! And say hello to everyone back home for me!_

_I love you, Daddy._

_Love, Shannon_

She tucked the letter into an envelope that was already stamped and addressed, from a stack of envelopes just like it that her father had given her. Her eyes fell on the photograph again, her long, elegant fingers reaching out to caress the image of the golden-haired woman. Those fingers, with nails always chewed to the quick… how many times had her father scolded her for that, shaking his head as he tried not to laugh? The corner of her mouth twitched up in a small half-smile that her father had told her many times made her look just like her mother.

She thought of her last day in Albuquerque; how her father had taken her to that place in the desert where her mother's memorial had been held all those years ago, and how together, all these years later, they had cast her ashes to the wind and sent them scattering into the arroyo below. Then, too, there had been that feeling of warmth, like the sun, that was Mary, always with her. It lifted her up inside even as tears had streamed down her face, matching her father's; unlike him, she didn't cry easily, but when it was called for... and in that, also, was her mother.

The warm feeling washed over her again as she looked at the photo.

"I love you, too, Mom," Shannon murmured softly, her smile spreading like light across her face. "I'll carry you with me, wherever I go."


End file.
